


I Shall Be Healed

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood, But please READ THE TAGS and avoid this story if it might trigger you., Fear of Death, Gen, If medical issues trigger you please bail out now and have a great day!, Injury, Mentions of major surgery, Nightmares, SCARY AND SERIOUS MEDICAL CONDITIONS AHEAD. Read Responsibly., Serious Illness, So it's pretty dark at first but it's canon-compliant so no one dies., infections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-01 22:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: "Freddie, we haven't slept in two days, Brian's in surgery, Roger's having a nervous breakdown, and we don't know if we're going to be a band anymore. I don't have the strength for philosophy right now."In 1974, Brian May got vaccinated prior to the band's trip to Australia. He contracted Hepatitis as a result, and collapsed backstage in New York after the concert on 11 May. I don't want to give too many spoilers, but if you need to read about the incident before deciding to read this story, more information is here:http://www.queenlive.ca/queen/74-05-11.htmThis is my imaginary version of what happened.





	1. For Your Hands are Defiled With Blood

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Please read the tags and understand that this story deals with an extremely serious medical condition. If these things bother you, please read another fic instead of this one.

(Ezekiel 3:18)

 

Prologue: 24 January, 1974

 

In later days, Brian would come to curse the afternoon he spent looking at antique telescopes, peering up into the sky rather than checking the clock on the wall.

When he finally remembered to look at his watch he swore, groaned, then checked his watch again. He'd read it correctly, meaning that he'd missed the doctors' appointment the EMI suits had set up for them. They needed to get a ridiculous number of vaccinations before the group's trip to Australia and time was of the essence.

So. 

There were no phone boxes anywhere he could see, but he did spot a clinic sign a few blocks up the road. He ran the distance, an ungainly figure with long, thin legs and hair nearly long enough to trail like a scarf.

A little out of breath, Brian pushed open the clinic door and rushed up to the Admitting area. "Do you administer vaccines?" he inquired.

"Of course," replied the nurse. She looked exactly as Brian would expect a nurse to look: middle-aged and kindly, yet obviously briskly efficient. "What do you need?"

Brian's methodical mind quickly sorted the information into alphabetical order. "Diptheria, measles, mumps, pertussis, rubella, and tetanus." When the nurse looked up at him in surprise, he added, "I'm going to Australia."

She wrote everything down neatly on a little notepad. "We don't get many international travelers in this neighbourhood, but I'm fairly certain we have all of these in here. Come with me."

He followed her, noting as he went down the hall that the man passing him looked pretty rough - thin, struggling to walk, with an odd yellowish cast to his skin. When they got to the area where blood was drawn, another, younger nurse was struggling to contain a bloody spill.

"I dropped the first vial, can you believe it? But he was so nice when I told him we had to re-do..." She trailed off, eyes widening as she saw Brian. "Wait...aren't you that guy from Queen? The guitarist? I love your playing!"

Flattered, Brian made a low bow before he sat down. "One and the same."

The older nurse shook her head, chuckling under her breath at the flirtation that went on as she put syringes and bottles on the metal tray next to Brian's chair. Brian's attention was on the autograph he was signing for the younger nurse, so he never saw that her sleeve had another man's blood on it. 

"Roll up your sleeve, dear." The older nurse rubbed Brian's right arm with an alcohol-soaked pad, not looking at the filled syringe as it lightly brushed against the younger nurse's blood-stained clothing. She smiled amiably at Brian, tapped the syringe, and prepared to inject it. 

"Don't worry, love. You won't feel a thing."


	2. Though The Earth Give Way

(Psalm 46:2)

 

11 May, 1974, New York City

 _Next tour, they can let Roger have the breaktime solo_ , thought Brian as he stood in the spotlight and wailed away on his guitar. He could see Roger in the wings, holding up a beer in salute. Brian wanted to salute him with a punch in the face.

He wasn't sure why this tour was getting to him in ways that much harder gigs had not. The food wasn't good - this whole country was obsessed with meat and treated vegetarians the way they treated Communists. His abdomen ached frequently, sometimes making it difficult to hold his guitar without pain. And he was tired. So, so fucking tired.

Just a few more notes, a few more moments, and it would be all four of them on stage, the way they were supposed to be. John's steadiness balanced Freddie's bigger-than-life stage presence. Roger, who could keep time like an atomic clock, reined in Brian's more fanciful guitar excursions. 

Brian ended on a long, wailing note that seemed to go on forever, and the audience went insane. He took a bow, stumbled slightly, and looked up to see John plugging in without looking at his bass. He was looking directly at Brian, normally placid features arranged in a concerned frown. Above him, Roger was twirling his drumsticks, an expectant look on his face.

Fuck. He was supposed to be starting "Son and Daughter." He grimaced at Roger by way of apology, ducked his head, and started playing.

He was so, so fucking tired.

His hands were on autopilot as he sweated, gritting his teeth against the stabbing pain in his gut. Everything hurt, down to the tips of his fingers against the strings. During "Liar," when Freddie came to sing with him and put his hand at the small of Brian's back, the touch felt like fire. Freddie mouthed _are you okay_? and Brian forced himself to nod, perspiration dripping from his hair onto the guitar.

"Keep Yourself Alive" had never felt more like a command.

He would never know how he got to the end of "Modern Times Rock and Roll," but it was over and the crowd was almost exploding and he couldn't make himself move. He could see the Mott the Hoople roadies gesturing at him from stage left but he couldn't respond. A strong hand grasped him by the elbow. John. Other hands carefully took his guitar from around his neck. Roger. "No encores tonight, love, let's get you out of here." Freddie. With their help he made it into the wings just in time to vomit into a fire bucket.

"Fuck," he groaned through gritted teeth. "Sorry!"

Roger guided him to his knees and pulled his hair away from his face. "Happens to us all," he declared cheerfully, patting Brian's back as he retched again and again. He waved Freddie back to prevent a chain reaction. "You'll feel better once you get that out."

Normally that would be the case, but when it was over and someone handed him a bottle of Coke, Brian actually felt worse. He sipped a little, his hands shaking around the bottle, then decided that he needed the cold more than the drink and ran the cool glass across his face. His vision was blurry with illness and the sweat that had made mascara run into his eyes, but he could see the shock on Freddie's expression.

"We need to call a doctor, darling." His voice was higher than normal, with a wavering quality Brian had never heard. "Just stay still."

"I'm fine," protested Brian. "Must've eaten something that disagreed wtih me. Or had some of that rotten American 'tea.'"

"American tea is positively disgraceful, but I doubt it caused THAT." Freddie gestured disdainfully at the fire bucket, which was about to be removed by a frowning stagehand.

Roger sat on his heels in front of Brian and passed his palm over Brian's forehead. "You're burning up," he said. "You should go back to the hotel. They've got enough guitars to do 'All the Young Dudes' without you."

"No!" Brian shook his head, then wished he hadn't, as he thought about the encore they did with Mott the Hoople at the tail end of the show. "By the time they're ready for me, I'll be fine." He saw Roger roll his eyes. "Hey!"

"Roger's right." This came from John, who stood above him with his hands on his hips. "This isn't something you ate."

"Thank you, Doctor Deacon," spat Brian.

"Boys, please!" Freddie motioned toward the dressing rooms. "Let's go where we can have a few minutes' peace." He held out a hand to Brian. "Can you walk, darling, or should we carry you?"

"Fuck off." But it was so hard to stand on legs that didn't even feel like his own, and even harder to move forward without feeling as if his head would fall off. With John's help, Brian managed to stumble toward the small sofa before he toppled over.

Freddie was seating himself as well. "Budge up," he said, and a few seconds later Brian's head was in Freddie's lap. "Give me the cold cream and some towels. If he's going back on - "

"He is NOT," John declared firmly.

"Yes, I am."

John shook his head, lips pursed in a tight line. Roger grabbed a makeup kit from the dressing table and brought it to Freddie, but he sounded anxious. "You sure about this, Fred?"

"IF he's going back on," continued Freddie, "then I need to do his face over again." The cold cream felt soothing against his flushed skin for a few moments, then Freddie began gently wiping it away. 

It was nice, lying still and having Freddie hum softly as he removed the sweat-streaked makeup. Brian closed his eyes and was finally starting to relax when he heard John ask, "Should he BE that colour?"

"What?" Brian opened his eyes again. 

Roger grabbed another flannel and wiped Brian's other cheek. "Oh, fuck."

"WHAT?"

Freddie's smile was insincere, nervous. "Not a thing, love, just old makeup that's gone bad, so I'll fix it. You never did quite get the hang of eyeliner, anyway; let me turn you from a guitar geek to a rock god. The girls will simply be DRIPPING when they see you."

There was something off in Freddie's tone, but Brian was too tired to fight back. He closed his eyes and let Freddie work his magic.

After a while, Freddie's soft voice and his own exhaustion put him in that blissful state between sleep and wakefulness. Whispers back and forth between Roger and John were just white noise, and Freddie's fingers reminded him of butterflies. Time lost any importance; he was content to just float, thinking of nothing.

***

"...on the red-eye tonight," John was saying. "I'm sending someone to the hotel to pick up our passports and a change of clothes. We can leave right after the show."

Brian opened his eyes. He was alone on the sofa, wrapped up in an overcoat he didn't recognize. On the other side of the room, John was arguing with Freddie.

"We can't just pack up and go home!" Freddie hissed. 

"Why not? We're only the fucking opening act; they can bring in someone else. But this is serious, Freddie, can't you get that through your head?"

"Brian will absolutely kill us!"

Roger, who was standing close to the sofa, cut in. "Guys. He's awake."

Blearily, Brian hauled himself to a sitting position. He felt marginally better for the sleep, but there was still a terrible pain roaring through his abdomen. "Why am I absolutely going to kill you?"

The other three exchanged furtive glances in silence until Roger spoke up. "This isn't something you ate, and it's not the flu. You've just about passed out on us twice, you're running a high fever, and it's obvious that you're in pain. It's not your appendix - I poked you on that side and didn't get a response. But it's bad. You need to get treated."

"Can't I just see a doctor here?" Brian asked.

John spoke again, clearly furious. "Trident doesn't want to pay the 'outrageous medical fees' in the US. It's cheaper to fly you home to the dear old NHS."

"Home...as in, ditch you guys on the tour? No offense, Deacy, but even you can't play bass and guitar simultaneously."

That got him a smile from John, although it didn't erase the furrows between his eyes. "We're all going home, mate."

"But there are more than a dozen dates left on the schedule!"

"Not negotiable." John patted him on the shoulder. "It's a shit gig, anyway."

Brian couldn't swallow past the lump in his throat. I'm sorry," he managed to choke out. Freddie brought him a Dixie cup full of water and he drank it, wincing at the rawness that seemed to go all the way down to his lungs. "If I can get through the encore and feel okay, can we stay?"

"No!" shouted Roger and John in unison, as Freddie cried out "Of course!"

Tense silence settled over them like a fog until Roger asked, softly, "Do you really think you can play?"

Brian nodded. "C'mon, get me backstage."

"This is a bad idea," John muttered, but he helped to yank Brian to his feet. 

Brian turned around and looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was a wreck and he was covered in sweat, but damn, Freddie had done a fantastic job on his makeup. Except..."Why does the eyeliner make my eyes look yellow?" 

Then he looked down at his hands.

Yellow.

"Roger, what the hell's going on?"

"Later, Bri. Let's go play their last song and then get out of here." 

Brian had to lean on both John and Roger to get to the wings, but nothing was going to stop him from picking up his guitar and playing his heart out on the Bowie tune. He loved "All the Young Dudes" and he'd prepared an extraordinarily complicated solo for it. The tech who slung the Red Special around Brian's neck looked at him with open concern.

Fuck him. Brian tossed back his hair, ignoring the explosive pain in his head, and started the solo. He was brilliant. Ray Major, standing to his left, whistled between his teeth. "Tasty!" he called out, and Brian managed to smile at him.

As the crowd cheered, Brian looked smugly up toward the drum risers. _Told you_. He pulled the plug from the guitar and loped to the wings, high on the adrenaline of a great performance.

John met him there, quickly getting the guitar into the hands of a roadie. He put his arm around Brian's waist, peering anxiously into his face. "Feeling better?"

Now that he was off the stage, no longer focused on his guitar, he hurt. Everywhere. His head throbbed, his arm felt swollen, and someone was throwing knives in his belly.

He turned his head and found Freddie and Roger changing into street clothes. They were so graceful, so unconcerned with modesty. So beautiful. John was saying something, something that sounded important, but Brian couldn't quite make it out.

"Here we go," John repeated, louder, "let's get this clean shirt on you, what do you say?" Brian let John manipulate him into the shirt. Someone - he couldn't tell who - unlaced his platform shoes and brought him a pair of clogs to slip on. 

There, he was presentable, he was going to be okay, so there was no need for worry. He blinked, suddenly unable to see anything but a foggy blur.

"Why'd they turn down the lights?" he croaked.

"Christ," Roger muttered as he came closer and put his hand on the back of Brian's neck.

Freddie's voice shook as he said, "The lights haven't changed at all. Brian, darling, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he managed to gasp before the room went black and he slumped to the floor.

***

The next hour was a blur of cramming into a smoke-filled taxi and stumbling into JFK Airport. Brian was only slightly aware of his surroundings other than the hands of whoever was holding him up. Luckily, the sleep-deprived agent at Passport Control was wearing dark glasses indoors - Roger would love that, Brian's hazy brain told him - and didn't think anything of the difference between the passport photo and the yellow-faced man wearing stage makeup.

"Only in New York could you have gotten away with this, man," breathed John when they had shepherded Brian to the gate. The flight was about to board. Roger was at the counter, sweet-talking the gate agent into seating the four of them together even though their tickets were all over the plane. Freddie was fidgeting, picking the polish off of his nails and staring at the clock.

It took a while for Brian to register what felt weird: they had checked no baggage and had nothing with them. "Where's our stuff?"

"Hotel. They're putting everything together and they'll send it to us in the next day or so," John said.

"My guitar..."

"You won't be needing that in the hospital, which is where we're going the minute we get off the plane," Freddie said in a surprisingly no-nonsense tone.

Brian opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by a beaming Roger, holding four tickets aloft. "We're in the back. By the loo, but we're in the same row." He started to give Brian one of the tickets, then thought better of it and kept it in his own hand. "Let's go."

They must look a sight, Brian thought woozily, in their rumpled clothes, wearing various stages of makeup, with their hair stringy from stage sweat mixed with hairspray. They probably didn't smell too wonderful, either. But he didn't care, not really, once he was in the window seat with Freddie at his side. John and Roger took the seats on the opposite aisle and buckled in. Brian vaguely heard the pre-flight instructions, was peripherally aware that Freddie was tucking a blanket around him, then dozed off.

He didn't know how long he slept, but when he opened his eyes he saw Freddie gazing out the cabin window. "How much longer?" he asked, and Freddie shushed him.

"Not a clue, darling. Tell me about the stars," he murmured.

Brian turned to the window, squinting enough to make out the jeweled patterns against an endless black velvet sky. Nothing made sense. He frowned as he traced imaginary lines among the glittering lights. Nothing.

"I can't tell," he said, his voice cracking. "Why can't I tell?" Rising panic bubbled in his bloodstream. "What's wrong with me, Freddie?"

"You're all right, you're all right," Freddie cooed. 

Brian twisted, trying to find some angle where his endless legs wouldn't feel as if they were being crushed, but that only put pressure on his chest. He knew he was flailing but couldn't stop himself. 

"Let him up, Fred!" Roger started unfastening Freddie's seat belt. Freddie stood up and held his hands out to Brian. 

He couldn't think clearly. Disoriented and in pain, he crawled out of the pair of seats and sat motionless at Roger's feet. He saw his friends shifting places, Freddie and Roger sitting together and wrangling the armrest so there was no longer a barrier between them. Then John guided him, gently, helping him stretch out across their laps with his head on Roger's shoulder and his feet in Freddie's lap. "We'll have to move him if there's turbulence," John whispered. "And obviously, when we're landing. When you get tired, tell me and I'll switch."

"You're a genius, darling," Freddie said affectionately. He took hold of Brian's hand and stroked it softly. "Brian, love, can you sleep some more?"

"Mmm." He nestled into the crook of Roger's neck, smiling as Roger put an arm around him to hold him securely. He had always loved the sound of Roger's voice, high and a bit raspy, so he was happy when Roger started singing softly. Roger was singing only for him.

"I was told a million times of all the troubles in my way..."

"I wrote that."

"Yes, you did. Now hush." Roger picked up where he left off. "Mind you grow a little wiser, a little better every day..."


	3. Be Strong and Courageous

(Joshua 1:9)

12 May, 1974, London 

Freddie wanted to scratch the faces off of every person who stared or grumbled as the paramedics took Brian off the plane. 

Yes, he had promised Deacy to stay calm. _For Brian._ But the events of the past day had worn him down to his one last nerve, and that nerve was stretched to the limit. _  
_

_Fuck these idiots who can't wait an extra ten minutes - can't they see he's unconscious?_

Roger managed to squeeze himself in between two paramedics so that he could keep hold of Brian's hand. John was following just behind. There was some kerfuffle about Brian's passport, but John slipped it under Brian's head, then asked for information on where they needed to go once they got into a taxi. 

"A taxi? Can't we go with them in the ambulance?" Freddie asked. It hadn't occurred to him that they would be separated, not allowed to stay at Brian's side after all he'd been through.

"They're not big enough, Fred," John said. Freddie could hear the anxiety in every word. "We have to go through Customs, too. They'll take him straight on and we'll catch up as soon as we can." He paused. "I'm glad I kept pounds in my wallet, or else we'd be walking to the hospital. We're sorted." 

Freddie and Roger exchanged open-mouthed glances; money hadn't occurred to either of them. "You're a genius!" Freddie exclaimed.

"Glad you noticed," was John's cool reply.

How could John sound so normal? But then, Freddie knew that John could put up a moat between himself and the rest of the world when he had to. 

They paused when they got into the terminal, jet-lagged and terrified. One of the paramedics tried to pull Roger's hand away from Brian's, but Roger held fast. John patted Roger's shoulder. "They need to take him, Rog. Let go. It's going to be okay," he assured him as he pried Roger's fingers loose one by one. He had to hold Roger back when the gurney arrived and the paramedics started wheeling Brian away. 

"They should have let at least one of us go with them," Roger said as he slumped against John. His eyes were dulled from worry and sleeplessness. "I know, Deacy, he's unconscious and he won't know if we're there or not, but we should be THERE." 

"We will be, darling," Freddie soothed, even though his instincts were to glue himself to the ambulance door if need be. 

_Hold it together, Freddie. For Brian._

They somehow made it through Customs without being arrested as vagrants, then piled into a taxi - all three in the back seat so they could touch one another. "St. Thomas' A&E," John instructed the driver. They sat in frightened, stony silence all the way. 

Freddie's heart pounded as they pulled up to the hospital. He was the first one out the door of the taxi and the first to run to the entrance, Roger at his heels, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He let Roger ask about Brian.

The admitting nurse gave him a sympathetic smile. "We're going to put you three in the waiting room, if you'll come with me. Doctor Kirkpatrick will be with you shortly." She showed them into a small, private room. Freddie shuddered at the bland whiteness of it all but he took a seat on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. 

Roger collapsed into another chair and lowered his head, hiding the tears from his friends. "Someone's going to need to call his parents," he groaned. 

Shit. 

John, leaning against a wall, made the offer. "I think it should be me."

Roger lifted his head. "You've never even met them." 

"That's why I think it should be me." John walked over to Roger and put his hand on his shoulder, at which Roger looked up at him and gave him a trembling smile. "I'll call Trident after we see the doctor - I'm sure neither of you knows the number offhand." 

"You should be our manager, darling," Freddie said lightly, trying to lessen the heavy anxiety surrounding them. _For Brian._ Roger chuckled and John smirked. 

A sandy-haired, middle-aged man opened the door and peered in. "Are you Queen?" he asked.

Even John was nonplussed. "How did you--" 

"I have teenaged children. My teenaged children have posters. I'm Doctor Kirkpatrick." He shook hands with each of them in turn, then said, "We should sit down." 

Freddie shivered. Sitting down only meant one thing: terrible news. 

"Mr. May is suffering from hepatitis. We're not sure which type yet, so we're drawn blood and we'll wait until the results before we begin treatment." 

Roger sat up straighter. This was more of his bailiwick than theirs, after all. "We've been around him constantly for the last month. Close quarters - we were on tour. And John was his roommate." 

"I see. I suggest that you all get gamma globulin jabs as soon as possible, to ward off infection. Your managers need to see that the road crews, technicians, or anyone else who's been in contact with Mr. May all get medical attention. That would include any...women he may have interacted with." 

"He hasn't," John broke in. "He's been feeling terrible this whole trip. Every night he went to bed as soon as we get back from that night's show." 

"Why didn't I know about this?" Freddie whispered to John, who shrugged. 

"He didn't want to worry you." 

"Can you tell me when the symptoms started?" Dr. Kirkpatrick asked. 

Freddie's mouth was dry as he answered. "It started when we were rehearsing for this tour. He was...how should I say it?" 

"Lackluster," John supplied. 

"Yes. Then by the time we went to America, he wasn't doing much unless it was for the show. I thought he was exaggerating." 

"You weren't to know," Dr. Kirkpatrick said, kindly. "I suspect that this may be hepatitis B, which is the more serious form of the disease." 

"How did he even get it in the first place?"

"It's transmitted by blood, John," Roger said, staring straight ahead. "Probably sex, since he doesn't do drugs. It can be dormant for months, so there's no way of telling." His statements were met with disbelieving silence. "I've studied biology. I'm not just a drummer." 

"I can see that." Dr. Kirkpatrick gave Roger a reassuring smile. "I doubt any of you are 'just' anything. I'm arranging for you to get the injections, and I assume you have no intentions of leaving, is that correct?" 

They all shook their heads, mute. 

"Then I'll bring some scrubs up for you to change into - after you shower, which you may do in the residents' lounge. When you're done I will iet you visit him one at a time. He's is in the Intensive Care Unit, where he'll be well cared for." 

Freddie exchanged worried glances with John and Roger. If Brian was in Intensive Care, then this was even worse than he had thought. 

"We're going to do everything we possibly can," the doctor reassured them. "This is a serious illness, but Mr. May is young and should respond well to treatment." 

"How is he doing so far?" John asked. He sounded collected, but he reached for Freddie's hand as he waited for a reply. Freddie took it and gave it a reassuring squeeze. _For Brian._

"He's in and out of consciousness and dehydrated - which is to be expected from the vomiting and airplane travel. We're giving him intravenous fluids, and once the variety of his disease is identified we will begin treatment." 

They nodded in unison. Freddie thought they looked like marionettes, which made him bark out a nervous laugh. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. 

"Quite all right. Let's see about getting you cleaned up." He ushered them into the corridor. "Down the hall, turn left, about six doors to the right. There shouldn't be anyone else in there at this hour."

"Thank you, Doctor," Roger said, sounding as if something large was stuck in his throat. 

He walked right past a pretty young nursing student and didn't even bat his eyes at her. 

Fuck. 

They took turns showering, Freddie first - "I simply cannot endure the STENCH one minute longer" - and he was relieved when the hot water ran over his body. He'd been awake for what seemed like days and his muscles complained loudly. He scrubbed himself clean, wrinkling his nose at the plain, medicinal soap even as he washed his hair with it. Whatever he needed to do to be able to see Brian, he would do, willingly.

 _For Brian._

He dried off with a too-small hospital towel and groaned at the hideous top and pants that had been left for him, along with paper booties for his feet, but he put them on and went to wait with Roger whilst John cleaned himself up. He gave Roger a little kiss on top of his head - Christ, his hair was filthy - and sat down opposite him. "How much do you know about hepatitis?" 

"Some. I know that it can cause liver damage. The jaundice is caused by bilirubin..." 

"Speak English, please." 

Roger stretched, a tiny rosebud of a smile finally starting on his lips. "He's yellow because of his liver. Anyway, it's curable. We can be thankful for that." 

"Oh, I am," sighed Freddie, but there was still a lingering terror that something else could go wrong. He had a sense about that, could always see something evil looming in the distance. 

John emerged, towel-drying his hair. Roger bounced up, already unbuttoning his shirt and nearly knocking John over in his haste to get ready. John huffed in mock irritation, then sat down on the arm of Freddie's chair. "How are you holding up?" 

"Me? Brilliant. You?" 

His grey eyes were cloudy. "I've been better. Not sure how much longer I can stay awake, but there's no way I could sleep, either." 

He did look tired, bless him. Freddie leaned his head against John's hip. "Roger says it's curable." 

"Thank God," breathed John. He flopped into the space between Freddie and the edge of the chair and closed his eyes. 

Freddie wanted to help but didn't know how. He wanted to cry but knew he couldn't. He bounced his leg up and down, impatiently, until Roger joined them. 

They exchanged a look in that moment, the three of them, that made their spines straighten. John took charge, herding them into the corridor and following the signs to the ICU. 

A large plate glass window separated them from their friend. The nurses, dressed in protective gear, had taken his clothes off, exposing the sallow flesh that made Brian look like a corpse. Freddie shuddered and blinked back tears. 

_For Brian.  
_

A nurse, a plump young woman with strawberry-blonde hair and kind eyes, joined them. "Since you were in such close quarters, Dr. Kirkpatrick asked me to give you the gamma globulin injections. It'll get your immune system going." John began to pull up his sleeve, but the nurse shook her head. "I'm afraid this one's in the bum." 

It was ludicrous, Freddie thought as he winced at the cold touch of an alcohol swab below his hip, that they were all standing with their dreadful polyester trousers pulled down, staring at Brian. The injection made him tense up. He heard John gasp when it was his turn. Roger just stared through the window, motionless.

"There, that's done. One of you can go in while we clean him up. He's still unconscious, but it might be nice to have a friend nearby. You'll need to wear a mask and gloves, and change your booties when you come out." 

John squeezed Freddie's arm. "You go, Fred. Stay calm." 

_For Brian.  
_

Freddie let the nurse put a mask around his face as he donned the gloves. He followed her into the room where Brian was hooked up to machines, lying still save for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

Another nurse looked at the wad of bandaging on Brian's arm. "We should get this off, see what's underneath." She peeled away the layers one by one, and her eyes above the mask widened with alarm. "Get Dr. Kirkpatrick. NOW." 

"What is it?" Freddie asked, his voice sounding distant and thin. He turned to the window, meeting Roger's wide-eyed gaze. John pressed both palms to the window as if he could evaporate and come out on the other side. 

"What IS it?" Louder now, more frantic.

Dr. Kirkpatrick stepped in, briskly, and he examined Brian's arm. His benevolent expression changed to a serious one. When he looked up at Freddie, he beckoned for the others to come as well. 

John and Roger hastily got into their gear and joined Freddie. They watched, gripping onto each other's arms, as Dr. Kirkpatrick examined the wound a second time. Freddie's heart was in his throat when the doctor came to them with compassion in his eyes. 

"I'm so sorry. It's gangrene."


	4. The Valley of the Shadow of Death

(Psalm 23:4)

 

Roger desperately wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

He listened carefully, trying to regulate his breathing, as the doctor explained what would happen next. "We'll do a course of intravenous antibiotics, along with antivirals for the heptaitis itself. Debridement - cleaning out the infected tissue - needs to happen as soon as Mr. May's condition stabilizes. Meanwhile, we'll draw an outline around the wound, and come back in a few hours to make the decision." 

"The decision?" John asked, cocking his head to one side. 

Roger knew what was coming next, even if the others didn't, and his body started to tremble. He kept his eyes on the doctor because he wouldn't be able to bear seeing John's or Freddie's faces when they learned Brian's fate.

"Mr. Deacon, if the bacteria gets from the wound into his blood stream, sepsis will follow. It's not a survivable condition. If antibiotics and debridement don't work, the only way to save his life is to amputate the arm." 

Roger heard Freddie cry out in horror, felt John's body hunch over next to his own. As for himself, he was filled with cold dread and the ground seemed unsteady under his feet. 

"Are you sure?" John's voice was almost inaudible. 

"We'll do everything in our power to prevent it, but if the infection is spreading in spite of the antibiotics, then we may have no choice." 

"The guitar - it's his whole life," mourned Freddie. 

"I really am terribly sorry that the news isn't better," Dr. Kirkpatrick said gently. "Is there anyone who can make medical decisions for him if he doesn't regain consciousness? Parents, perhaps?" 

John pulled himself upright. He sucked in a deep, ragged breath. "I meant to do it earlier. I'll get on that right now." 

"Call Mary, too," Freddie reminded him. He grabbed John and hugged him tightly. "How the hell are we gonna get through this?" 

"I dunno, Freddie," was John's muffled response. When he lifted his head, Roger saw how pale he was, how close he was to tears. Roger blinked back tears of his own and ruffled John's hair. 

John set his lips together tightly and fled the room as if it were on fire. Freddie was obviously too shocked even to cry, so Roger led him out into the corridor and set him down on a chair. They removed their masks, gloves, and booties and Roger threw them in the disposal unit. "We've got to pull ourselves together," he said as firmly as he could through a voice that was about to break. "When he wakes up, he can't see us like this." 

Freddie nodded, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. "I know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He leaned over, his head coming to rest on the side of Roger's waist. 

Absentmindedly, Roger stroked Freddie's head. He wanted a cigarette - he and Freddie both had abstained on the flight home because they didn't want to make Brian worse, and once they got to the hospital there hadn't been time. He wanted alcohol, too, enough to warm the icy dread in his veins. He wanted Brian not to have been sick in the first place. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. 

Medical staff went in and out of the ICU over the course of the next hour. Their faces were grim and they wouldn't look Roger in the eye. Every time someone walked by without any sign of hope, Roger lost strength. Finally he let go of Freddie and slid down the wall, ending up on the floor with his arms folded and his head down. 

"Poor Roger," Freddie whispered as he caressed Roger's hair. "It's so hard, isn't it?"

He didn't trust his voice so he just nodded. He was hyper-aware of how hard the wall was, and how cold the floor felt on his bare feet. The sensation of Freddie's fingers in his hair reminded him of hands, and arms, and Brian's arm, and suddenly his breath hitched and he was crying. "Oh, shit, I didn't mean to do this," he wheezed.

"I know, love, I know." 

Roger bit down on the back of his wrist to stop the flow of tears. He coughed, mouthed _sorry_ at Freddie, and was beginning to regain his composure when John rushed up to them. 

"Brian's parents are on a cruise; someone from the studio is going to try and radio the ship but it might or might not work. Evidently Kansas leapt at the chance to be the new opening act for Mott the Hoople, so that's sorted. I got hold of Mary. She was about to go crazy because all of our gear was dropped off on her doorstep a couple of hours ago and she didn't know where we were." 

"Is she coming here?" Freddie asked. 

"Yes. She's bringing everything with her and we can go through it while we're waiting." He looked down at Roger, red eyes meeting red eyes. "Any news?" 

"Nothing." He was close to breaking down again so he turned his head. 

"There's something else. It's not...easy, but we need to know what's going on. Before the tour, remember all the papers we signed?" 

Roger remembered his hand aching by the time he finished putting his name on the dozens and dozens of documents. "Yeah, I used up an entire Biro." 

"One of them was a medical power of attorney form, just in the event that something happened. Brian has it for the three of us, and I have his. I don't think I should be the only one to make this decision, so we need to do it, all three of us." He paused, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I say we let them do the operation." 

Roger's heartbeat went erratic. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. 

"No!" shouted Freddie. "We need to wait for him to wake up." 

"We may not have that kind of time," Roger said patiently although he wanted to scream just as loudly. "We may have to act - either to save his life, or...or to let him go. What do we decide?" 

Freddie spoke slowly and plainly. "I vote no. He won't want to live without his music."

John shook his head sadly. "Freddie, listen, we have to do what we think is best." 

"I won't let them do it, I won't let them cut it off!" Freddie exclaimed. 

"Really? You want to be the one who tells his parents that he never woke up because we didn't give him the chance to survive?" 

"John, that's not fair!' 

"NONE OF THIS IS FAIR!" Roger winced at how loud his voice sounded. He held his hands up, palms out, and started again. "I've known Brian longer than anyone else here. I love him. He's probably the closest friend I have, and I don't want to lose him. I know he'll hate me forever for this, but..." 

"No." Freddie tugged at his arm, pleading. 

Roger made himself look at John, straight in the eyes. "Yes. Let them take the arm if they have to." 

"Fuck you," Freddie spat. He turned away, shoulders shaking.

"Ah, Freddie," John murmured, "don’t make this worse than it already is." 

"Fuck you both." 

Roger clambered to his feet. "I'm gonna go smoke," he began, but at that moment Dr. Kirkpatrick and a nurse came over to them. 

_No.  
_

"Mr. May has been awake for a while, and his thinking seems to be a lot clearer than what you were describing when he was first admitted."

"There! He's better!" declared Freddie, but the doctor interrupted him. 

"However, I'm afraid that we're seeing some movement beyond the boundaries we drew on his arm earlier. We definitely need to do the surgery sooner rather than later." 

John's shoulders drooped. "What did he say when you told him?" 

"I haven't told him yet. I will, if you want me to, but as painful as it is, I think it should come from one of you. No one should hear that kind of news from a stranger." 

Roger knew they were all looking at him, waiting for him to volunteer. Freddie was too volatile, too emotional, and John was clearly at the end of his rope after explaining the situation over the phone to so many people. "I've known him longer," he said, repeating what he had said earlier. "And I have at least a basic understanding of how these things work, if he has questions." 

"Roger, I'm sorry..." 

"It's okay, John." He put his hand on John's arm and squeezed. "I kinda thought this might happen." 

But it was real now, a horrible burden, and he wasn't certain that he could endure it. 

"Should we come with you, love?" Freddie asked gently. 

"No. You go wait for Mary. And John, get something to eat before you fall over. It's going to be all I can do to tell him...I can't have anyone watch me do it." 

The nurse handed him new safety equipment. John steadied him as he put on the booties and Freddie slipped the mask over his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know how close the two of you are." 

Roger tried to smile, tried to look brave, but from the expressions on his friends' faces he knew they weren't falling for it. He turned around abruptly and walked into the ICU wishing he could take Brian's place. 

Brian was propped up on pillows, a canula providing oxygen through his nose. His colour was a little better already, and the cheerful, innocent smile he gave Roger hurt him down to the bone. 

"Hey," Roger said, hoping he sounded relatively normal. He was grateful that the mask covered the trembling of his lips. "How're you feeling?" 

"A little better." He sighed, nestling down in the pillows. "Where's Freddie and John? And has anyone talked to my parents? 

"We're doing Brian-sitting duty in shifts. Your parents are on a cruise - we've got someone from the studio trying to contact them." There was a chair next to the bed and Roger sat down in it, leaning over and putting his hands around Brian's good wrist. "Listen, Bri, we have to talk." 

"If it's about the gig--" 

"No, no, nothing like that." Roger made himself meet Brian's eyes. "The place on your arm, where you cut yourself on the rigging backstage? It got infected."

"Yeah, it hurts like hell." 

"Yeah." He bit his lip for a moment before he continued. "It got worse, Bri. A lot worse. It's gangrene. And it's spreading." 

Oh, how he regretted looking into Brian's eyes, because they were widening, filling with tears. "What're you saying?" Brian whispered. 

Roger took his good hand and held it close to his cheek. "The doctors need to do a debridement - that's cleaning out the wound. There's a chance they can get it all." 

Brian nodded. Roger could hear him swallow, hard, against the rising panic. "But...?" 

"But if they can't, they'll need to amputate." 

For a few moments, the only sounds Brian made were small ones from between tightly clamped lips as he shook his head. His gaze never wavered from Roger's even though tears started to spill down his cheeks and into the tangled hair scattered on the pillows. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," Roger whispered. He wanted so much to take away the pain, but he was helpless to do anything but hold Brian's hand. 

Finally, Brian managed to speak. "No." 

"Brian.." 

"No. No, NO!" He shook Roger off, his voice turning to thunder. "You won't let them do this, you will NOT let them do this to me!" 

"Brian, it's your life we're talking about here! If the infection spreads into your bloodstream, you'll die!" 

"Good!" He pushed his head farther into the pillows. "I'd rather die," he said with a terrible, unnatural calmness. 

Roger gently took his hand again. "We can't do without you. You're our brother, we love you." 

"I'll be useless," Brian said soberly. "What good is a guitarist who can't play the guitar?"

"But you can do so much more than that - you can write and play percussion, or even some piano. And your voice, Brian, it's gorgeous and we don't get to hear it enough!" Roger knew he sounded hysterical but he couldn't stop the words from pouring out. "Please don't take that away from us, please! There's so much more left for you to do!"

"Oh, Roger. You don't really believe that, do you?" 

His voice faltered. "I..." 

"What would you do if you were in my place?" Brian cupped Roger's cheek, stroking the tears with his thumb. "Would you be willing to go through the rest of your life never playing the drums again?" 

Roger thought about it for a moment. Would he? Could he give that up, if something happened to him? Would it be worth it to be alive without the instrument that had captivated him since childhood? 

He took Brian's hand again and placed it over his heart. "I would, if I thought any of you wanted me to stay." He squeezed Brian's hand tightly. "Please. Please stay with us." 

Brian turned his head. "Is there any chance that cleaning the wound would be enough?" 

"There's a chance, of course there is!" 

"A good one?" 

Roger wanted to lie, but Brian's trust was something he valued. He shook his head. "It's small. Very small." 

After lying very still for a few moments, Brian nodded. "Okay. But on one condition." 

Roger couldn't speak anymore, just squeezed Brian's hand again. 

"I want to play just one more time. In case." 

Roger glanced at the clock and cleared his throat. "I'll see if Mary's come by with our bags. Don't go anywhere." 

There, that made Brian smile a little bit. Roger got up and dashed out into the hall, nearly colliding with John as he lowered the mask. "He's agreed. He wants to play again before, though - is our stuff here?" 

"Yeah, Freddie has it in an empty patient room. Let me get him." John paused. "That was brave, Roger, really. I don't know if I could've done it." 

"I can't believe I did," Roger said, running his hands through his hair. "I've got to go back to him - you and Freddie come in with the guitar, please." He looked over at the nurses' station and gave a thumbs-up, then took his seat next to Brian again. 

"Is it coming?" Brian asked.

"In a minute - John went to get Freddie." He moved aside so the nurse could bring a clipboard and pen to the bed. She handed them to Brian, who read the document slowly and carefully. 

"Can you give me a few minutes, please?" He signed his name at the bottom, staring at it. "I don't want the last thing I do with this hand to be signing a paper saying you get to cut it off." 

Roger shivered. _Someone's walking over my grave_.

"Don't give up hope, Mr. May," the nurse said as took the clipboard and put her hand gently on Brian's forehead. "Dr. Kirkpatrick and his team are the best in Britain. They'll do everything possible to ensure that you have a good, long, healthy life - with both hands if they can manage it." 

"Ta." Brian smiled briefly, then he smiled more fully when Freddie came in with the Red Special firmly in hand. "Let me have her," he insisted. 

Roger knew how deeply Brian loved his home-made guitar, crafted from odd materials but with love and care - much like their band. Moving his right arm clearly caused Brian pain, but he strummed gentle chords for several minutes before starting something Roger had never heard before. "I was dreaming this tune. And some words." 

Freddie had his hands over his masked mouth, tears spilling through his fingers. John, clearly trying to be stoic, stood behind Roger and put his hands on Roger's shoulders.

"Oh, oh, people of the earth,  
'Listen to the warning,'  
The Seer, he said:  
'Beware the storm that gathers here.  
Listen to the wise man.'" 

"That's fucking gorgeous, darling," Freddie sniffed. "It's going on our next album." 

If they were ever able to do another album.

Roger could see two nurses coming closer to the room. They waited respectfully until Brian passed the guitar to John, then came in and started hooking him up to a different IV line. 

As one of them struggled to fit Brian's hair into a surgical cap, he turned to his friends. "Do me a favour?" 

"Of course," John said without any pause. "What do you need?" 

Brian looked down at his hands, then back up again. "If they do...amputate...don't let me see her again. I just..." He held out his hand and all three of his friends held on to him, murmuring wordless noises of comfort. 

"We're starting a light sedative now, Mr. May. It's just to help you relax." 

Relax? Did they really think Brian was going to relax? Roger rolled his eyes, which made John start to laugh, and within seconds they were all giggling like naughty schoolboys. 

Brian's eyelids flickered a few times, black lashes fluttering. "Wish me luck," he whispered as an orderly transferred him to a gurney and pushed him out of the room. 

Staring down at the bed where Brian had just lain, Roger smoothed the still-warm sheets. He wanted to absorb something of Brian, just in case. 

Just in case.


	5. We Are With You

(Ezra 10:4)

 

John didn't care for smoking. He frequently wished Freddie and Roger would cut down - if not for the sake of their voices, then at the least to get Brian to stop complaining every time one of them lit up. As the hours of Brian's surgery ticked past with no word on his condition, however, John found the habit to be quite useful. 

They had been sent back to the residents' break room, away from the more crowded waiting areas. Their worry turned to fretfulness, and before the first hour was over Freddie and Roger had begun sniping at one another. Freddie was simply under the strain of forced cheerfulness, but something very wrong was bubbling under Roger's surface. Sending them out, one at a time, for a smoke break was the only way for John to keep the peace. Or his sanity. 

Roger was out at the moment, leaving Freddie to pace, curse, throw open the door every time he heard footsteps, and generally make a nuisance of himself. John gave him a certain amount of latitude because of jet lag and anxiety, plus his essential Freddie-ness, but if he didn't sit down... 

"Fred. Park somewhere, please." 

He pretended not to see Freddie's answering eye-roll. 

"There's still food," John added, hoping that would be a distraction. Mary, bless her, had dropped by to take their dirty clothes to be washed, and had returned them later along with a delicious selection of Chinese take-away. 

Out of habit, Roger had asked if any of it was vegetarian - for Brian, of course. The moment he realized what he had said, he went deathly pale and covered his mouth with his hands, as if he could keep the words from tumbling out. John's heart ached for him. He couldn't imagine having to deliver the horrible news to Brian, and he wasn't nearly as close to him as Roger was. 

He tried to be equally charitable to Freddie, but if he didn't sit down... 

"What on earth is Roger DOING - he's been gone for absolute AGES!" 

Or if he didn't stop talking... 

"He's been gone less than twenty minutes, Freddie. When he comes back, it'll be your turn again." 

John, who was sitting on the floor so he could spread out, turned the page of the notebook he was using and started scribbling again. He had an idea that he hoped would work, and he needed peace and quiet to get it done. He knew that part of the problem was his own unease about what was happening to Brian, but he was able to compartmentalise, to put that concern into a drawer and lock it away until he was free to deal with it. 

The rest of the band lacked anything like that level of self-control. No wonder their arguments tended toward the epically theatrical, between Freddie's catty bitchiness, Brian's stubbornness and sarcasm, and Roger's hair-trigger temper. What they didn't know was that John burned slowly but brightly, and once the fuse was lit there was no stopping the explosion. 

On the other hand - John winced at the thought of two hands, then shoved that notion back in the drawer and locked it again - there was a lot to be said for his friends' positive qualities. Freddie was affectionate, and often generous to a fault. Brian had a quiet inner strength along with an enviable intellect. And Roger, underneath the scandalous behaviour and hotheadedness, was the most loyal person John had ever known. 

He strongly considered tripping Freddie the next time he walked past, then went back to work. Work would take his mind off of...his mind. He bore down too hard on the pencil and snapped the tip. "Shit!" he yelped, the volume much higher than the situation warranted. 

Suddenly he had Freddie at his side, hugging him tightly. "I know you're nervous, darling, but he's going to be all right. I'm just sure he is." 

John leaned into the hug. He was so tense that he thought his arm might break in half. Thinking about an arm made him think of Brian, and he was right back where he started. 

"Deacy?" 

Sighing, John pulled another pencil from the spiral of the notebook - he'd brought four because you never knew when you'd suddenly need one - and set it down on top of the paper. "What is it, Freddie?" 

"What are we going to do if they really can't save Brian's arm?" 

John rubbed his eyes. His lids felt like sandpaper. "What happened to 'I'm just sure he's going to be all right?'" 

"That's just bravado, darling. I'm actually fucking terrified." 

They looked at each other. For the life of him, John couldn't remember ever seeing so much agony in Freddie's dark eyes. All the worries John had filed away came back to clutter his brain. 

"I'm terrified, too. I can't imagine watching Brian - BRIAN - struggle to eat a meal or comb his hair, or learn to write left-handed. I can't imagine how hard it will be to watch us play with some other guitarist." He paused, took stock of Freddie's expression, then began again. "Or how he'll feel when we break up the band because we can't bear the thought of working with anyone but him." Saying it aloud knocked the breath out of him. "He's not replaceable. Nor you, nor Roger. Lose any one of us, and we lose Queen."

Freddie bit his lip and nodded. "Lose any one of us, and we lose Queen," he repeated. 

Great, so now John had an extra trouble to lock up. Two, if he counted guilt over the jealousy he often felt when Brian wrote himself an extravagant solo but never seemed to find eight measures for John to shine. 

"'The house of my soul is narrow,'" John said under his breath. At the sight of Freddie's raised eyebrow, he added, "Saint Augustine. It ends with 'spare Your servant from strange sins.' Seems appropriate." 

"Do you actually pray, Deacy?" 

"Now and then. Are you surprised?"

"A bit. But then, we don't really know you, do we?" 

John rubbed his eyes again and waited for the dull kaleidoscope to dissipate. "Freddie, we haven't slept in two days, Brian's in surgery, Roger's having a nervous breakdown, and we don't know if we're going to be a band anymore. I don't have the strength for philosophy right now." 

"You do. That much I'm VERY certain of. You're the strongest of the four of us. I used to think it was Brian - it was never Roger and certainly not me. It's always been you, all along." 

He mulled that over for a moment. "You know, that's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Freddie's face fell, and he nudged John's foot with his own. "Then it's shamefully overdue." 

They smiled at one another, then Freddie closed his eyes and John went back to work. 

Roger entered the lounge a few minutes later, his hair disheveled from standing outside in the wind, his eyes swollen and red. He stalked around the room for a few minutes, huffing to himself. 

"Roger, love, come sit with us. You must be worn out." 

That set something off. Roger, hands shaking, started to sweep everything off of one of the dining tables. Forks, napkins, and salt shakers crashed to the floor, paper napkins landed everywhere. He turned back to them with flushed cheeks and a twisted, angry set to his mouth. 

"Shut up, Freddie! You're refusing to face the truth, so just fucking shut up! And you, John - you're just sitting there, you're just fucking SITTING there, and he's dying, they're cutting off his fucking arm and he's gonna die, and you're drawing little pictures in your little picture notebook!" He wiped spittle from the corner of his lips. 

"Roger..." 

"No! NO! I've watched you just sit there in your own little Deacy world while I'm the only one who actually give a flying shit about our friend!" 

"Roger, you need to sit down," John said evenly despite the frantic beating of his heart. He knew that the dam was opened and Roger's own fear was flooding him. "You don't need to shout. We know you're scared - we're scared, too." 

"FUCK being scared and FUCK YOU!" 

Freddie got up and shook his hair out of his face. He reached for Roger, who drew his arm back as if to strike him, but Freddie was faster and took hold of his wrist. "Stop this." Roger twisted but couldn't free himself. "Roger. Roger, look at me."

"Let me GO!" 

"I won't." 

Roger surged again, then once more, before the fight went out of him like a flame suddenly snuffed out. Boneless, exhausted, he slumped to the floor with Freddie still holding his arm. He looked at Freddie, then at John, then covered his face with his hands. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I don't know where that came from, I'm so sorry."

Seeing Roger break down was worse than seeing him rage against them. Freddie knelt and held him close, shushing him and stroking his hair. John picked up his notebook and joined them. "This is what I've been drawing, Rog," he said softly. 

"I'm sorry..." 

"No, look. C'mon, you too, Freddie." He opened the notebook to two pages and started pointing at his work. The others gaped at it, uncomprehending. "It's some schematics for an electronic prosthetic arm." He turned the page. "And here's the arm itself. This is where the fingers would be, see how they're hinged? They could be operated by a foot pedal." He paused. "I'm pretty sure it could work on some level. I mean, I don't know how much control he'd have, but at least it'd be something - I had to do something, offer him some kind of hope if..." 

He was cut off by Roger throwing his arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably into his shirt. "Take it easy, Rog, it's okay, it's okay." 

"It's not. I'm sorry..." 

"Let him cry it out," Freddie said softly as he rubbed Roger's back, and John nodded. "I think your invention is brilliant. I just hope we don't have to build it." 

"Me, neither," John replied. 

Roger was beginning to calm down, finally sliding down to the floor and curling up, his anger drained at last. John petted his head for a moment, then returned to the notebook while Freddie watched. 

Another hour passed, and another. Roger had fallen asleep, mercifully, and John was just about to start a detailed sketch of prosthetic fingers when the door opened at last and Dr. Kirkpatrick came in. 

John's heart started pounding. Freddie's entire body was stiff, alert. He prodded Roger, who pulled himself up, wiping his eyes. "What's happening?" Roger asked, his voice reduced to a mere raspy whisper. 

The doctor smiled at them. "He came through the operation just fine. It took a long time to get blood flow restored, but it's done." 

John plucked up the courage to ask the unspoken question, the one that would seal their destinies. "Did you have to amputate?"

"No." 

John tried to speak but he was too overcome. It was going to be over, and they were going to get Brian back. All of him, all of his exasperating perfectionism and his sharp tongue and his hands, both hands, and they were going to make music together... 

"It was touch-and-go, I won't try to deny that, and we were prepared for the worst. But the vascular surgery team did a wonderful job. He's going to need some rehab to get full range of motion, but barring any further infection I think he's going to make a complete recovery." 

Somehow, John managed to stand up, legs quivering from exhaustion and worry, and shook the doctor's hand. "I don't know how to thank you," he croaked. 

"The look on my kids' faces when I tell them I helped save Brian May's arm will be worth the world to me," Dr. Kirkpatrick replied. "He's the only one in Recovery and he'll be waking up soon. You're welcome to wait for him there." 

"We'll do that." For the first time in two days, John felt the bliss of pure relief. He squared his shoulders and turned to Freddie. "You go first - I'm gonna help Roger clean himself up, and we don't want Brian to wake up alone."

"See you in a few minutes," Freddie said, an enormous smile blossoming across his face as he followed Dr. Kirkpatrick out of the room. 

"C'mon, Roger, let's get you on your feet." John helped yank Roger up, surveying his tear-streaked face. "Splash some water on your mug. You don't want Brian to see you looking like this." 

Nodding, Roger went to the sink and ran the tap, rinsing his face with water so cold that it made him gasp. He reached blindly for a towel, which John handed him, and as he wiped his face he slowly turned around.

"I didn't mean that. Any of that. I was off my head." He stopped to put the towel down. "I'm sorry." 

"It's okay." John picked up another towel and dabbed at Roger's damp hairline, looking into the expressive blue eyes rimmed in red. "No one ever gets to see the real heart of you, Roger. But I know it's there. I saw it today, when you had to tell Brian about the surgery." He chucked Roger under the chin and Roger gave him a watery smile in return. "I know your heart." 

Roger pulled John to himself for an instant, then spun away and exclaimed, "I'll race you!" 

They ran out into the corridor together, laughing. 

*** 

"...no..." 

Brian desperately wanted to get out of the nightmare. He could see his arm floating away from him, dripping blood, the disembodied hand waving goodbye. 

He heard laughter. Or maybe it was music. 

No, wait, it was Freddie, whose voice always sounded like music. "Open your eyes, darling. It's over, it's all over." 

It was so terribly hard. His eyelids felt leaden and hot. 

"I'm right here. Roger and John are here, too. We've been waiting for you." 

"F...Freddie?" 

"That's right. It's time to open your eyes now, Brian. Can you do that for us?" 

Groaning with the effort, Brian opened his eyes. He couldn't focus, but he recognized Freddie's dark, smooth hair. "Freddie?" He squinted, making out two other heads, one dark and one bright. "John? Roger?" 

"We're here," Roger said, and Brian felt a hand on his forearm. Calluses on the palms. Roger. Brian tried to focus again, and after a few moments he saw Freddie's smile. 

"My arm...did they...?" 

"It's okay now, darling. You have everything that you went in with, except for that disgusting infection. Look." Freddie gently tilted Brian's head so that he could look down the length of his right arm. "There it is, your beautiful hand." 

It was there. His fingers were swollen and everything from the wrist up was swathed in bandages, but it was there. Brian looked at John and Roger, grey eyes and blue, the prettiest colours he'd ever seen. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "How long?"

"The surgery lasted almost ten hours. That's why you're having trouble waking up. You need to take in more oxygen." Roger instructed. "Breathe a few more times, it'll help." 

Brian inhaled again, and again, and by the third time the fog started to lift. He worked his fingers, flinching at the pain in his arm. 

"You're going to need to keep it very still for a few days," Dr. Kirkpatrick said from the other side of the bed. Brian, with an effort, turned toward him. "You'll stay in the hospital for about a week, then we'll send you home to rest. Hepatitis makes you very, very tired, so you'll have to have people to take care of you." 

"He's got that," John declared. 

"And you need to be checked regularly, so we'll send a visiting nurse." 

"Not when Roger's home, please," rasped Brian, pleased to be making a joke. 

Even the doctor laughed. "We're going to move you to a regular room. It's small, but we can fit a folding bed in there so your friends can take turns staying with you." 

"I'd like that," he murmured. It was so hard to stay awake, but he wanted to see his friends. He heard someone say "Get it," and moments later Roger showed him his guitar. 

"It's the perfect teddy bear for someone like you," he said. His voice was weirdly thick, Brian thought as the guitar was placed lovingly in his bed. 

"Have you been crying, Roger? You shouldn't be crying."

"He has, my love," Freddie murmured, sounding fond and amused. "We all have, but we won't do it anymore. Now you can close your eyes again, and when you wake up you'll feel so much better." Freddie smoothed the hair away from Brian's forehead with his soft, gentle hands. It felt wonderful. 

The bed was moving, Brian realized, and he clutched the guitar a little tighter. He felt a strong hand on top of his, helping him keep it in place, the tips of the fingers rough where they plucked bass strings. John's hand, as steady as his playing. 

Once the gurney stopped and orderlies gently moved him and his beloved guitar to the hospital bed, Brian opened his eyes again. They were still there, his three adopted brothers, smiling at him and holding on to whatever parts of him they could reach. 

Dr. Kirkpatrick hooked him up to some monitors, checked his vital signs, and nodded, clearly pleased with what he saw. "I'll check on you every few hours for the first day or so and we'll take it from there. In the meantime, is there anything you need?" 

Was there anything he needed?

Freddie was stroking his hair, John held on to his hand, and Roger's warm palm rested over his heart. 

"I have everything I need," he said softly. He was whole, he was protected. 

He was loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Having had Hepatitis, I can attest that it's a wretched disease that can linger for the rest of your life. Poor Brian.
> 
> I've started a Tumblr! Find me here: lydiannode.tumblr.com .

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Weaknesses.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817693) by [epherians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epherians/pseuds/epherians)
  * [Summer 1974](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042987) by [Miracule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule)




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